“There is much magic surrounding us in our nightly revels. I will ask my stag for some kind of sleeping draught that will render our nightly guardian too sleepy to follow us. Although my stag never speaks, he seems to understand me when I request a drink or some food of him. Perhaps, then, he can aid me with this request, as well.”
“What if he doesn’t know of any such sleeping potion?” Mathilde considered.
Eleanore pressed her lips together as she thought. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’m simply going to hope that he does.”
Glancing out the window, she saw that it was nearly dark. “Come, let’s move the bed,” she instructed her sisters. “It’s time to go.”
C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE
Bedivere Is Tempted
Bedivere coughed harshly into the sleeve of his tunic, and his chest ached with the effort. The nights spent on the dirty mat in the disease-infested alley of beggars had caused him to come down with congestion in his head and chest. He felt his forehead and determined that it was warmer than normal.
He could not let it stop him, though. Pausing at the town well, he drew up a bucket of water and poured it over his head, drenching his hair and clothing. It was not a proper bath, like the kind he’d enjoyed in a marble tub back in Camelot, but it was better than nothing and it was all he really felt capable of at the moment.
He needed to get back to the manor, and he had to do it before someone else beat him to the challenge. This contest posted by Sir Ethan was his chance to get inside the manor to see Rowena. He clung to the belief that she’d have him if he won the competition, and this was a prize beyond any measure.
As he walked down the road, he saw other men who seemed to be headed in the same direction. Some rode fine horses and were dressed richly.Others affected a scholarly air, and still others were attended by retinues of servants who carried them aloft on fancy pallets. Bedivere tried to keep in mind that he was Sir Bedivere of the Round Table and not let himself become demoralized by his present state, but the fits of coughing that overtook him and the sweaty fatigue his illness induced did nothing to help his frame of mind.
He attempted to arrive at the manor before the others by cutting into the forest in hopes of finding a shortcut. He was an excellent navigator and was encouraged that he was making good time until he came over the hill just before the manor.
The forest was infested with men setting up camp outside the manor’s front gate. As he came closer, he saw Sir Ethan appear at the front gate and step out in front of it. There was immediately a rush of men who crowded around him. Bedivere hurried forward and made his way to the front.
“Thank you all for coming,” Sir Ethan spoke to them. He nodded at the gilded box he held. “I have here numbers inscribed on cards. I will hand them out and they will tell you the order in which you are to be allowed inside to test your wits in this competition.”
He opened the lid and took out his numbered cards. Bedivere stepped forward along with the others. A fight broke out between two men directly in front of him as one pushed ahead of the other. Bedivere seized the opportunity to work his wayaround them and get to the head of the crowd.
When he finally stood in front of Sir Ethan, the man eyed him with disapproval. To Bedivere’s dismay, at that moment a fit of coughing overtook him, doubling him over.
“I am sorry for your illness my good man,” Sir Ethan told him when he had recovered and stood awaiting his card, “but I cannot risk having my household infected with whatever ails you. With the plague and pox so rampant in parts of our countryside, I simply cannot allow you to enter my home in your condition.”
“I assure you this is but a temporary ailment and will soon be done with,” Bedivere tried to persuade him.
Sir Ethan studied him as if struck by the way in which his knightly manner seemed at
“What if he doesn’t know of any such sleeping potion?” Mathilde considered.
Eleanore pressed her lips together as she thought. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’m simply going to hope that he does.”
Glancing out the window, she saw that it was nearly dark. “Come, let’s move the bed,” she instructed her sisters. “It’s time to go.”
C HAPTER T WENTY-ONE
Bedivere Is Tempted
Bedivere coughed harshly into the sleeve of his tunic, and his chest ached with the effort. The nights spent on the dirty mat in the disease-infested alley of beggars had caused him to come down with congestion in his head and chest. He felt his forehead and determined that it was warmer than normal.
He could not let it stop him, though. Pausing at the town well, he drew up a bucket of water and poured it over his head, drenching his hair and clothing. It was not a proper bath, like the kind he’d enjoyed in a marble tub back in Camelot, but it was better than nothing and it was all he really felt capable of at the moment.
He needed to get back to the manor, and he had to do it before someone else beat him to the challenge. This contest posted by Sir Ethan was his chance to get inside the manor to see Rowena. He clung to the belief that she’d have him if he won the competition, and this was a prize beyond any measure.
As he walked down the road, he saw other men who seemed to be headed in the same direction. Some rode fine horses and were dressed richly.Others affected a scholarly air, and still others were attended by retinues of servants who carried them aloft on fancy pallets. Bedivere tried to keep in mind that he was Sir Bedivere of the Round Table and not let himself become demoralized by his present state, but the fits of coughing that overtook him and the sweaty fatigue his illness induced did nothing to help his frame of mind.
He attempted to arrive at the manor before the others by cutting into the forest in hopes of finding a shortcut. He was an excellent navigator and was encouraged that he was making good time until he came over the hill just before the manor.
The forest was infested with men setting up camp outside the manor’s front gate. As he came closer, he saw Sir Ethan appear at the front gate and step out in front of it. There was immediately a rush of men who crowded around him. Bedivere hurried forward and made his way to the front.
“Thank you all for coming,” Sir Ethan spoke to them. He nodded at the gilded box he held. “I have here numbers inscribed on cards. I will hand them out and they will tell you the order in which you are to be allowed inside to test your wits in this competition.”
He opened the lid and took out his numbered cards. Bedivere stepped forward along with the others. A fight broke out between two men directly in front of him as one pushed ahead of the other. Bedivere seized the opportunity to work his wayaround them and get to the head of the crowd.
When he finally stood in front of Sir Ethan, the man eyed him with disapproval. To Bedivere’s dismay, at that moment a fit of coughing overtook him, doubling him over.
“I am sorry for your illness my good man,” Sir Ethan told him when he had recovered and stood awaiting his card, “but I cannot risk having my household infected with whatever ails you. With the plague and pox so rampant in parts of our countryside, I simply cannot allow you to enter my home in your condition.”
“I assure you this is but a temporary ailment and will soon be done with,” Bedivere tried to persuade him.
Sir Ethan studied him as if struck by the way in which his knightly manner seemed at
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